Common Cause
by Swing Girl At Heart
Summary: While in New York for Nationals, one of the Glee kids falls deadly ill, and it's a case no one can solve but House. Medical mystery, with healthy helpings of humor, horror, love, drama, and showtunes.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I would like to dedicate this story to my friend Corbin. I miss you, and will see you at the end of March** :)

* * *

_Chapter One_

"Got a new case," Foreman said by way of greeting as House entered the conference room. He dropped his bag on the chair by the door and sat heavily at the table, frowning at the file.

"Some kid in a wheelchair vomited on stage during a performance. Gee, that's exciting," House said, snapping the folder shut. "When you mentioned a case, I was under the impression that it was a _medical_ case."

"It is," Foreman said. "He was referred to us from Mercy Hospital in Manhattan when they couldn't figure out what was wrong."

"They didn't see that it was a simple case of stage fright?" House asked. "Wow, my respect for them has suddenly dropped even further."

"He went into anaphylactic shock in the Mercy ER—" Foreman began forcefully.

"So he's allergic to something they gave him."

"—_before_ they gave him anything."

"Still not interesting."

"House," Foreman's voice was laced with warning. "You don't have a choice. I'm your boss, and it's Cuddy's orders that we solve this."

There was a pause, and the rest of the team watched House expectantly. "Fine," he said after a pause. "He get an MRI?"

Thirteen shook her head. "No, he's got metal plates holding his pelvis together. Same car crash that paralyzed him. What about autoimmune?" she suggested. "If he went into anaphylactic shock before they gave him anything, it must have been coming from inside."

Foreman nodded. "It's possible. Doesn't have to be that serious, though. STDs?"

House scoffed. "Kid in a wheelchair? Doubt it."

"What, just because he's handicapped means he's a virgin?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Test him for lupus, Churg-Strauss, ITP, any other autoimmune diseases you can think of… _and_ STDs," Foreman ordered, narrowing his eyes at House. House feigned innocence. "Run a tox screen, too. Kid with a handicap is bound to have some self-esteem issues."

* * *

Will Shuester was not one to be easily scared. Angered, yes, irritated, sure, shaken, maybe. But rarely scared. When Artie had mentioned that he wasn't feeling well, he'd brushed it off as pre-performance nerves, not really seeing that his student was paler than usual. Then, he and the rest of the boys in the Club stood on stage and sang '_Mr. Blue Sky_' and Artie was faltering, not remembering the moves quite as well as in rehearsals. When his solo came up, he squinted in the spotlight and his voice faded. And suddenly, he doubled over, emptying his stomach completely onto the stage.

After that was chaos, but Will had remained surprisingly calm. In the ambulance, Will had repeatedly said, "It's fine, Artie. They'll let us go again, and if not, there's always next year." He'd been calm as Artie was whisked into the ER and he'd had to talk to the rest of the Glee members, to let them know he'd be okay. He'd been calm as he gave the ER doctors the details of the incident. He'd been calm as he called Artie's parents to let them know what happened. But when Artie had abruptly passed out mid-sentence, and the nurses had swarmed around him, pushing Will and the Club members out of the way, he had not been calm. He had definitely been scared.

The ER supervisor had eventually been contacted, and she came to talk to Will and Artie alone. After reviewing his chart and running several blood tests for afflictions that Will couldn't remember the name of, the supervisor admitted that she was at a loss for what was wrong. "The anaphylaxis indicates something more serious than what we originally thought," she'd said. "He had an allergic reaction to nothing, and that usually means autoimmune, but he's exhibiting no other symptoms of autoimmune diseases, and they're all extremely rare."

"So what do we do?" Artie had asked, obviously attempting to keep his voice level.

"Well, I'm going to refer you to a doctor in Princeton," she'd said with a consoling smile. "He specializes in cases like these, when other doctors can't figure out what's wrong, and he's got a list of solved cases a mile long. He's definitely your best option."

And so Artie had signed the papers for transfer, and now here they were, in Princeton, an hour's drive away from the Nationals in Manhattan. It was nearing nine A.M. and the Glee Club members were draped over various chairs in the waiting area near the second-floor nurses' station, most of the girls fast asleep and most of the boys staring boredly at the wall. Tina, however, was wide awake, her eyes deadpan as she waited for news of Artie's condition.

"You should get some sleep," he told her. "It's gonna be a while before we get out of here."

"I'm fine," she said quietly.

Will sighed, rubbing his eyes in exhaustion. He hadn't slept since Artie had lost consciousness, and it had been over a day. If they were here for any longer, he'd have to find a motel or something to accommodate the other kids. They couldn't sleep in hospital waiting chairs forever.

"Mr. Shuester?"

Will looked up to see a tall, broad-shouldered African-American doctor standing at the edge of the waiting area. "Yeah, hi," he said, standing up and shaking the sleep from his head as he went to join the doctor in the hall. "Any news on Artie?"

"Well, he's starting to show a fever, but we're doing everything we can to get to a diagnosis. Dr. House has agreed to take your case, so Artie's in good hands."

"Oh, you're not Dr. House?" Will asked.

The doctor smiled. "No, I'm Dr. Foreman; I'm part of Dr. House's diagnostic team. We're performing a series of tests now; nothing serious, just covering all the bases. Drugs, STDs, etcetera."

Will shook his head. "No, Artie's a good kid, he wouldn't be doing any of that."

"Mr. Shuester, no offense, but Dr. House's motto is that everybody lies. It's not that we don't trust Artie, it's just that with serious cases, we can't afford to take those chances."

Will nodded. "I understand. Does Dr. House have any ideas?"

Dr. Foreman nodded. "He's got a couple theories that we're exploring. Autoimmune, for one."

"Yeah, the doctor back in New York mentioned that – what is that?" Will asked.

"Well, each autoimmune disease is different, but in layman's terms, the body becomes allergic to itself and begins to reject certain parts like the heart or the skin."

Will's eyes widened. "Jesus! Artie could have that?"

"It makes sense, since he went into anaphylactic shock before he was given anything that would cause it, but keep in mind that autoimmune diseases vary in intensity. In some cases, they're actually beneficial – they help spot cancer," Dr. Foreman explained. "Don't worry. He's in good hands. If any of his friends want to visit him, they can."

* * *

Tina went to visit Artie first. Mr. Schuester took the rest of the Club down to the cafeteria to buy them an early lunch, and so the two of them were left alone in Artie's ward. "What if they don't figure out what's wrong?" Tina asked softly.

Artie smiled. "Don't worry about it, I'll be fine. I survived a car crash, I can tough this out," he said, giving his dead legs a light slap for emphasis.

Tina laughed. Artie coughed, his chest heaving lightly. His face was slightly flushed from the fever.

"Is your throat sore?" she asked, her eyes full of concern.

He shook his head. "Nah, I'm good. I'm just pissed that I ruined Nationals for everyone."

"Artie, it wasn't your fault," Tina insisted. She paused; he had a strange expression on his face. "Artie?"

He frowned. "My chest hurts," he said, rubbing it with one hand. "Ow, ow, _ow…_"

Tina leaped back in surprise when his head jerked back involuntarily and he suddenly screamed, the muscles in his neck straining as his glasses fell to the floor. "Artie! Artie!" she shouted, trying to calm him as his body contorted in pain, his teeth gritting and his fingers curling rigidly. He squeezed his eyes shut and screamed again, hugging his chest as if trying to force the pain out.

Kurt bounced into the room, sandwiches clutched in his hand. "We got you guys some— Oh my God!" He froze.

"_Get help!_" Tina shouted.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: So, I'm gonna do something on this story that I've never done before. Yes, I am talking about shout-outs! Or whatever they're called. Anyways.**

_relhoff:_ Thanks so much for your positive feedback! (and being my first reviewer) Hope you'll continue to read :)

_Jessica: _ Haha, yeah, I've also been on the lookout. Well, you know what they say: If there's a story you want to read but can't find, write it yourself. As for the chronology, this takes place in the 2nd season of Glee, when they go to Nationals, although I don't know where that will take place. I do know from a brief stalking of the Glee boards that two more characters will be introduced once the show goes back on the air, but for the sake of simplicity I left them out. As for House, this takes place in the beginning of Season 6, when he's out of Mayfield and back to working for PPTH, but Foreman is still his boss. I hate Cameron, though, so I kicked her to the curb (evil laugh). Yes, there is Artie/Tina, and I think I might add some Finn/Puck/Quinn triangle drama (don't worry, NO slash)... But we'll see. As for the music, I really want to add a performance or two, but at the moment am at a loss as to how exactly to execute that. I'm wide open to song suggestions, too. Thanks for your review!

* * *

_Chapter Two_

Will's leg bounced restlessly as he checked his watch again. It'd been almost two hours. He'd ordered the Club to stay in the cafeteria; any snacks were on him. He, on the other hand, waited in the second-floor sitting area. He leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees and rubbing his hands together in impatience. Tina had been severely shaken, and Will had trusted her into the comforting guardianship of Mercedes. He sighed heavily and looked around; Dr. Foreman was nowhere to be seen. He couldn't help but play the scene over and over in his head; Artie's screaming, his face reddened with fever and pain, his body jerking as if it would combust at any moment. Kurt had dashed off and found Dr. Foreman with amazing speed, and all of them were shoved out of the ward, the blinds drawn so Artie became invisible. Then, there was silence from inside.

"Mr. Shuester?"

Will snapped awake; he'd fallen asleep without realizing it. Glancing at his watch again, he saw that he'd only been out for ten minutes. Dr. Foreman took the seat across from him. "We've gotten Artie stable again, and right now he's asleep. The chest pain was caused by another allergic reaction, a spasm of the coronary artery called angina pectoris. It's pretty painful, but often non-fatal."

Will breathed a sigh of relief. "So, what happens now?"

"Well, none of the autoimmune tests came back positive," Dr. Foreman stated. "It's good news. Means it something less serious, something external. So now we have to figure out what exactly he's allergic to."

"Okay," Will nodded. "I'll go talk to the kids."

Dr. Foreman nodded, standing up. "If you could find out if any of them gave Artie anything – anything at all – since you left Ohio, it'd be really helpful. It might still be in his system and causing all this."

"Yeah, no problem." With that, Will headed downstairs to the cafeteria, where he found the other Glee members sitting around three small tables in the corner. Puck and Mike Chang were playing cards. Finn munched on a bag of chips, and Kurt was playing some game on his cell phone. "He's okay," Will said when they looked up. "It was another allergic reaction."

"To _what?_" Mercedes said.

"That's what they're trying to figure out," he replied, dropping tiredly into an available chair.

"How long will it be until he's better?" Rachel asked.

"It depends on what he's allergic to," Will answered. "Dr. Foreman says that these things can be pretty dangerous, so we can't take any chances.

"We can't be here forever," Puck complained.

"I know, I know. I'm gonna check you guys into a motel that's about fifteen minutes away."

"_What?_" Santana crossed her arms indignantly. "We have to go back! Sue is gonna _kill_ us if we miss any more practices!"

"Hey," Will interrupted sternly. "Artie is in the hospital, and he is _seriously_ ill. He's part of the team. We came here together, and we're going back together. As a team."

* * *

Foreman sat at the conference table, poring over Artie's case file for the seventh time that day, searching for any clues, anything out of the ordinary besides his paralysis, but there was nothing.

"You really think you're gonna find anything new this time?"

Foreman glanced up to see House standing at the other end of the table. For a cripple, he could walk damn quietly. "I'm just making sure I don't miss anything," he said.

"What about leukemia?" House suggested, going over to make coffee.

"We know that both the fainting spell and the coronary spasm were because of anaphylaxis," Foreman replied, shaking his head.

"How? Two different reactions to the same allergen, without there being an obvious cause? That's a pretty long shot," House argued. "Acute megacaryoblastic leukemia would account for all his symptoms."

"Blood test didn't show any cancer."

"False negative." House grabbed his coffee cup and snatched the file from under Foreman's nose, heading for the door.

"Where are you going?" Foreman demanded.

"To talk to Wilson."

"House, he doesn't have—"

The door shut before Foreman could finish his sentence, and House smirked to himself on the way to Wilson's office. He pushed the door open with his cane, not bothering to knock, as usual. "Got a patient for you, Jimmy."

Wilson turned around from his computer. "Who?"

House tossed him the file. "Andy Adams—"

"Arthur Abrams," Wilson corrected, flipping open the folder.

"Whatever. He's sixteen, had a fainting spell and a coronary spasm, and he's paralyzed from the waist down."

"Please tell me you haven't shoved that in his face yet."

"Nope, haven't met him," House said. "The key word in that sentence, though, is 'yet'."

"Come on, House."

"I think it's leukemia."

Wilson frowned. "From just a fainting spell and a coronary spasm?"

"And vomiting and a fever."

"Okay, so you have three really generic symptoms, and one allergic reaction, so _why_…?"

House ignored the strange look he was being given and continued. "Foreman thinks that they're all because he's allergic to something, but none of the autoimmune tests were positive and the kid hasn't come in contact with anything that would cause it."

"He doesn't have a family history of cancer."

"First time for everything."

"The cancer test was negative."

"False negative."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Fine. I'll take a look at him. You happy?"

"Nope. But if he has cancer, I will be."

"You are _unbelievable_, House."

* * *

Artie woke at the sound of the door to his ward sliding open. He groaned; his chest was still a little sore. Cracking open his eyes in the bright light of the room, he saw another doctor taking a seat in the chair next to his bed, and he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

"Hi, Arthur, I'm Dr. Wilson," the doctor said.

"It's Artie," Artie corrected as he pressed a button on the bed's control panel; the bed rose to allow him to talk with the doctor at eye-level.

"Artie, okay. I need to take some more blood for another test."

Artie frowned. "Test for what?"

Dr. Wilson's expression was somber and sympathetic. "Leukemia."

Artie felt his already-sore heart skip a beat. "I have cancer?" he asked.

"That remains to be seen. It's just a test, but Dr. House believes that all your systems could be caused by a rare form of blood cancer called acute megacaryoblastic leukemia."

"That doesn't even sound real," Artie said.

Dr. Wilson laughed lightly. "No, it doesn't. Most diseases don't."

"What happens if I do have cancer?"

"Then we start you on chemo as soon as possible. If it is leukemia, we've caught it in the early stages, so you'd have a very good chance of going into remission soon."

Artie took a deep breath and nodded, holding his arm out for the needle that Dr. Wilson carried. The blood was drawn quickly, and Dr. Wilson placed a square of gauze on the tiny drop swelling on the crook of Artie's elbow. "Hold that there," he said.

He stood up, keeping the vial capped, and noticed that Artie hadn't moved. "Artie?" he said. For a moment, it appeared as if the teenager had simply zoned out and was staring into space, but then his eyes rolled back in his sockets and his limbs began to flail. Wilson quickly dropped the drawn blood onto the chair and turned Artie onto his side as he convulsed, pressing the emergency button on the side of the bed. "We need diazepam in here, stat!" he shouted to one of the nurses who entered. "Suction, he's aspirating," Wilson ordered the other nurse, who promptly stuck a vacuum tube into Artie's mouth as foamy saliva began to drip onto the bed.

From the other side of the glass wall, House stood, watching the half-paralyzed boy shake and dance, almost like a marionette in some cruel puppet show. "Well," he muttered. "I guess it's not cancer."


	3. Chapter 3

_relhoff:_ Thanks!

* * *

_Chapter Three_

"So it's not leukemia, and it's not allergies." House was pacing back and forth in front of the whiteboard. "What causes fainting, coronary spasms, fever, seizures, and vomiting?"

"Chagas disease?" Chase suggested.

House considered for a moment, nodded, and scribbled it on the board.

"What about meliodosis?" Taub asked.

"Not unless he's been living in the slums of Somalia or India or some other underdeveloped Third World country," House retorted.

"Poisoning," said Thirteen.

"Who'd want to poison the kid in the wheelchair?" House asked mockingly.

"Systemic lupus erythematosus?" Chase piped up.

"He _is_ male, right?"

"It _does_ happen in men, too," Chase argued.

"Are you speaking from personal experience? You know you don't count as a man? I'm just checking."

Chase rolled his eyes as House wrote it beneath Chagas.

"Okay, we have lupus and Chagas," House said, frowning at the board. "Considering that it's _never_ lupus, treat him for Chagas."

"House," Foreman cut in, irritated. "We are _very_ far away from South America, and we know the fainting and the coronary spasm were allergic reactions because they responded to epinephrine."

"Are you still chewing that bone? Those symptoms respond to epinephrine regardless of whether or not they're anaphylaxis," House rebutted. "Come on, I thought you were a doctor!" An all-too-familiar smirk wound its way around House's mouth, tugging the corners up, and he knew he'd won. At least, he'd won in the eyes of the rest of the team, all of whom followed him out the door.

"Give him benznidazole for the Chagas and keep a stock of epinephrine in his room just in case," House ordered as he walked. He was about to say something more, but a man ran up to him before he could speak.

"Could you tell me where to find Dr. House or Dr. Foreman?" he asked.

"Um, this is Dr. House," Taub said. House shot him a look that was beyond murderous. The man didn't seem to notice.

"Oh, great! I'm Mr. Shuester, Artie's teacher," he said, holding out his hand.

"I don't care," House said bluntly. "What do you want?"

Mr. Shuester blinked, taken aback by the doctor's abrasive behavior. "Uh…well, Dr. Foreman said that I should let you guys know if he'd taken anything since we'd left Ohio. I just found out that one of the other kids gave him some ibuprofen for a headache right before we went onstage. Could he be allergic to that?"

House glared at the team members. "I thought you guys were supposed to _tell_ him!" he complained, half-mocking.

Mr. Shuester frowned. "Tell me what?"

"Avery—"

"Artie."

"Whatever. It's not an allergic reaction he's having," House said. "We're treating him for Chagas disease."

House tried to brush past him, but Mr. Shuester maneuvered back in front. "Chagas disease is from South America, not the US," he said suspiciously.

"Oh, look, he's done his homework," House snapped, irritated that the curly-haired teacher was blocking his way.

Mr. Shuester shook his head. "I'm a Spanish teacher, I've traveled down there a lot."

"Oh, so maybe he got it from you!" Again, House attempted to circle around the man whose annoyingness was rapidly increasing.

"Wait, do you think that's possible?"

"Not at all," House growled sarcastically, his patience gone. "That's why we're treating him for it, of course." With that, he limped quickly down the hall, disappearing into Wilson's office and leaving his ducklings to the clutches of his patient's teacher.

"House, what are you doing?"

House turned around to see Wilson staring at him expectantly. "Hiding. Shh!" He hobbled over to the couch and threw himself length-wise onto it.

"Who from? Cuddy?"

"No, what's-his-face's stalker teacher."

Wilson nodded. "Yes, it's shocking that your patient's guardian should want to know what's going on. Especially since you're intent on avoiding him completely. I can't imagine why he'd approach you."

"You've got the wrong verb," House declared. "More like 'try to catch me in his evil web'."

"Okay, you _have_ to be talking about Cuddy."

House frowned. "Do you hear something?"

Wilson gave him a strange look. "What are you talking about?"

House sat up, tilting his head in an almost dog-like fashion so as to listen. He pulled the blinds back from the window. "How come you have your window open?"

"What? It was hot in here."

House had a suddenly confused expression on his face as he peered out at the grounds below. "There's a group of kids outside, and they're all singing Buffalo Springfield," he said.

"What?" Wilson repeated. Shaking his head, he went over to the window to see for himself. House was right; there was a group of teenagers arranged in chorus lines in the middle of the hospital's decorative garden courtyard, led by a small-ish brunette who stood apart from the rest, all singing a Broadway-sounding version of Buffalo Springfield's _For What It's Worth._

"Well…_that's_ unusual," House said.

Rachel smiled brilliantly as she led the Club's rehearsal. They (well, really it was just her) had worked for weeks converting this particular song into a show tune cover, with girls and boys alternating verses and backup. She had to admit, it did sound fantastic. Mike, Brittany, and Santana were working on the dance to go with it, but Rachel had a feeling that she'd end up doing that herself, too.

As concerned as she was about Artie's condition, the members couldn't go more than a couple of days without rehearsing. Practice was everything in show business; and if they didn't know it, she certainly did. Besides, everyone needed both a distraction from their own worries for their wheelchair-bound friend and something to lift the boredom. Knowing that they wouldn't be allowed to rehearse either in the hospital or in the motel (for fear of disturbing the other guests), she'd realized that the hospital courtyard was the perfect stage. Not only was it decorated nicely for practically any outdoor performance, but on three sides it was shielded from the elements by the hospital itself, whose walls also created the perfect echo effect. And most importantly, there was room for an audience.

A small one had gathered during their rehearsal; about fifteen people (relatives of hospital patients, most likely) who had been outside enjoying the weather or eating late lunches had loosely grouped together to watch the spontaneous and upbeat performance. When _For What It's Worth_ ended on a high note from Mercedes, several claps were heard throughout the limited audience.

"All right, guys, let's give _Mr. Blue Sky_ another go," she said excitedly. "I know it's hard without musical accompaniment, but we're getting even better."

"Hey!" someone shouted from the audience.

Rachel turned to see an angry-looking man with a cane limping towards them at an alarming speed. Involuntarily, she took a step back as he drew closer, towering over her.

"I think you guys got off at the wrong bus stop," he said. "This is a hospital, which means there are people working, and generally speaking, when the people working here get distracted, the patients die."

"I-I'm sorry, we didn't know we were disturbing anyone," Rachel stammered. She wasn't really used to negative responses to her stage appearances. "Our friend is a patient here; we didn't have anywhere else to rehearse. And rehearsal is everything."

The man stared at her, almost incredulous. "It might be everything to you, but tell that to the patients dying here."

Rachel pursed her lips. "Excuse me, sir, but I believe that singing and performing brings joy to the sick. It helps speed up their recoveries."

"And what would _you_ know about it?"

She crossed her arms. She didn't like this guy's attitude. At all. "And what do _you_ know about it? I don't see _you_ in a white coat."

A doctor standing at the front of the crowd began to laugh, saying, "House, leave it. They're just having some fun."

The man with the cane glared at Rachel. "Save the fun for somewhere else," he ordered. He turned to leave, then paused and turned back. "Are you the guys with Andy Abraham?"

"Artie Abrams?" Mercedes asked.

"That's the one."

"Yeah, why?"

The man thumped his cane a couple of times on the ground in thought, then said, "Which one of you gave him the ibuprofen?" When nobody answered, he pressed, "For his headache before the show. Who gave it to him? Come on, I don't have all day."

"Are you his doctor?" inquired Kurt.

He sighed, irritated. "I work for the hospital," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Who gave him the ibuprofen?"

After a moment of silence, Tina shyly stepped forward, chewing on her bottom lip. "I-I did."

"Was he complaining about headaches before?"

"Uh, yeah, I think he had one during the plane ride, and another the night before the performance. Why? Is that part of whatever he has?"

"I've no idea," he stated simply. With that, he spun on his heel (oddly nimble for a cripple) and limped off in the other direction, leaving the Glee members confused and a little more than weirded out.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: What's this? Three updates in less than a day and a half? This person must have no life! (sigh...)**

* * *

_Chapter Four_

Artie was feeling better now that the treatment for Chagas seemed to be working. How he got Chagas disease in the first place, however, was a complete mystery. He'd never even been south of Kentucky, let alone out of the country in any direction. Now, he sat in bed reading a book that Mr. Shue had brought him from the gift shop; it wasn't particularly interesting, but it did help the boredom.

The door slid open and Tina came in, sitting in the chair by his bed. He smiled and put the book down, glad for the distraction. "Hey."

"Hey," she said. "How are you feeling?"

"Well, I'm kinda sore from the heart thing and the seizure, but I'm doing okay," he said, leaning back against the several pillows.

The door opened again and Mr. Shuester entered. "Hey, Artie, I got you an early dinner from the cafeteria," he said, plopping yet another sandwich onto the tray table and wheeling it towards him.

Tina leaned over and brushed her fingers over Artie's hand. "You're going to be okay, Artie," she said. "You're going to make it through this."

"Jesus, you make it sound like I'm terminal," he joked, slightly uncomfortable that she would act intimately in front of Mr. Shue.

His teacher gave him a strange look. "What'd you say, Artie?"

"Oh, nothing, I was just talking to Tina," Artie replied, flapping a hand. "What kind of sandwich is that?"

Mr. Shuester didn't answer, gazing at Artie with eyes full of apprehension. "Um…Artie, Tina's…Tina's not here…"

"What?" Artie said, not sure if he'd heard right. "What are you talking about? She's right there." He looked back at her, and she was smiling mischievously. He frowned; Tina never looked mischievous.

"No, she's not," Mr. Shue said. Artie didn't hear him.

Her grin began to stretch, almost splitting her face in two. "But Artie, you _are_ terminal!" she cried cheerfully, her eyelids peeling back and exposing what shouldn't be exposed. Artie was rigid, his eyes wide, even as he heard the telltale hiss of a knife and a long, glinting blade was drawn from beneath her sweatshirt. Laughing, Tina leaped towards him, bringing the knife down in a swift jerking motion. Artie screamed and lifted his arms to defend himself, but the blade sliced into his forearms, blood seeping through the wounds and dripping onto the blankets.

He briefly heard Mr. Shuester yelling into the hall for help, but he didn't know what good it would do. Tina brought the blade down again and again, stabbing through Artie's arms, his chest, his dead legs, his stomach. "_You should have died in that car wreck!_" Tina shouted at him, her voice unnaturally deep and sounding as if it were coming from a deep void. Artie screamed again, clamping his hands over his ears to block her out. He was barely aware of two (or was it three?) white coats coming in and rushing about. Then, something was injected into his IV, and everything went dark.

* * *

Will held onto Artie's jerking body until he stopped moving, falling limply against the pillows in a chemically-induced sleep. His heart still racing, Will took a step back. "What the _hell_ was that?" he breathed.

The shortest doctor (Townes?) answered with, "He had a hallucination. Probably thought someone was attacking him."

Will shook his head, still trying to wrap his brain around what he'd just witnessed. "No, that doesn't make sense," he muttered. "When I first came in, he said that he was talking to Tina. Tina would never attack him; she'd never attack anybody."

"Well, that's the thing about hallucinations," Whatever-His-Name-Was replied. "They're not real, so they don't have limits. The brain's a funny place; it plays dirty. No rules, no laws of physics or otherwise. And when it's sick, it's a scary place to be."

_Well, that's reassuring,_ Will almost said. Instead, he asked Dr. Foreman, "So what does this mean for Artie?"

The black doctor sighed. "It means we're back to autoimmune."

Will ran his fingers through his hair, agitated and feeling like he wanted to punch a wall. "Jesus. You said…you said that the-the autoimmune diseases are all different from each other. How bad is this one?"

"Systemic lupus erythematosus is the most serious," Dr. Foreman said solemnly. "It is treatable through immunosuppressants, but I'm afraid we don't have a cure. We're going to do another test for it just to make sure, since the first one was negative, but the chances of Artie _not_ having lupus are pretty low, so we're also going to start him on the immunosuppressants right away so as not to waist any time."

Will sat down, letting out a heavy breath of exhaustion. "His parents are going to be here tomorrow morning," he said, looking at Artie's unconscious form sprawled across the bed. "What am I going to tell them?"

"I'll talk to his family," Dr. Foreman promised. "Your job is to talk to his friends."

* * *

It was Night Two at the motel, and the other Glee members were getting restless. The girls were crammed into two rooms and the boys into two others, but up until Mr. Shue (forever the teacher) ordered them to bed, they hung out together in one of the girls' rooms. The girls were mostly sprawled across the beds and the boys across the floor, playing card games or gossiping or even practicing a song or two. They all stopped what they were doing when Mr. Shue opened the door, his jacket slung over one arm, his face unreadable.

"Did something happen, Mr. Shue?" Rachel ventured after an awkward silence.

Mr. Shue blinked, as if he'd just remembered they were there. "Uh, yeah. Artie, uh, he had a pretty bad hallucination, and, uh, well, it means that it's not what they thought it was. It's something worse."

Tina buried her face in her hands to hide her sudden tears; Mercedes drew her into a hug. Even Puck looked stunned.

"Dr. Foreman says that, uh, it's treatable, but there's no cure for it. So, Artie's just going to have to tough it out," he said. "But what's important to remember is that we will always be there for him, okay? Make sure that you are. All of you."

There was a long silence; no one knew what to say until Rachel stepped in. "I vote that we put together a number for Artie."

There was a clamor of agreements, and when Mr. Shuester left to go to his own room to sleep, they were in a highly engaged discussion about who would get which part.

* * *

Artie woke with a start at exactly ten A.M. the next morning, more than a little irritable and with a bad headache. He muttered a few choice curses at the bright sunlight coming in through the windows and struggled to roll onto his other side; a difficult task with his lack of movement below the waist, and it was made more difficult as he gingerly avoided stressing the IV needle in his hand.

"Morning."

He jumped, wide awake again as he fumbled to put on his glasses. Tina sat in front of him, looking worried. Artie drew a sharp breath and pulled back from her as fast as possible. "Get away from me!"

Tina's eyes widened with shock and hurt. "What's wrong, Artie?"

He stared at her for a few tense moments, trying to decipher whether she was real or not. There was nothing to indicate that she was just a figment of his imagination like the day before – no blurred lines, no creepy smile, no deadly voice – but it was finally the true concern in her eyes that convinced him. "You're really here," he said at last.

Tina frowned, unsure of what he meant. "Yes, I'm here."

He let out a sigh of relief and relaxed. "I'm sorry, Tina, I just— I thought you were trying to kill me yesterday, and I-I didn't know—"

She stood up and came closer. "It's okay, Artie." She planted a quick kiss on his lips and drew back. "Come on. We've got a surprise for you."

She helped him down into his wheelchair, rolled the IV stand next to him so he could take it, and pushed him out into the hall. "Where are we going?" he asked.

"Right here," she said, parking his chair at the second-floor sitting area. Artie was half-excited, half-confused; the only Glee member in sight besides Tina was Finn, who stood dead center of the floor, a smile on his face. As soon as Tina put the chair's brakes down, she began to sing lightly, her voice filling the room (which was impressive considering the size). "_When you walk through a storm, hold your head up high, and don't be afraid of the dark,_" she chimed as she circled around Artie to stand next to Finn, who took up the next lines. "_At the end of a storm is a golden sky, and the sweet silver song of a lark…_"

As the chorus began, the rest of the Club came out from various 'offstage' positions around the sitting area, joining in the vocals as they took an organized stance. "_Walk on through the wind, walk on through the rain, though your dreams be tossed and blown,_" they sang, their voices swelling and the boys and girls harmonizing perfectly with a well-rehearsed effect. Then, the tempo picked up and Artie laughed as they stomped a beat on the floor, their clapping hands and the squeaks from their sneakers woven seamlessly into the song. "_Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart, and you'll never walk alone – you'll never walk alone!_"

Mercedes piped up with (stunning, as always) her own improvised harmony notes, "_No, no, you won't. No, you'll never walk. Not alone._" The second time Mercedes' line was sung, Rachel followed suit, and then Tina, then Quinn… Eventually, every Glee girl was chanting "_No, you'll never walk. Not alone,_" in time with the beat, while the boys sang "_Through the wind, through the rain – walk on, walk on!_" Artie grinned widely and clapped with them, thoroughly enjoying the performance despite the headache that was building in his skull. In unison, all eleven performers landed evenly on both feet, paused for a silent beat, then sang softly and slowly, "_Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart, and you'll never walk alone. No, you'll never walk alone._"

Artie laughed and applauded as the song ended and the Glee members bowed. None of them noticed that a crowd had gathered, and none of them were applauding.

"Excuse me!" a woman's stern voice cut into their small celebration, drawing their attention back to reality. Her high heels clicked on the floor as she walked straight up to them, her hands on her hips. "And who told you that you could use the sitting area as an auditorium?"

Finn gave her a confused look. "Who are you?"

"Answer the question," she ordered, not batting an eye. Even with _very_ high heels, she was still a good head shorter than the football star.

"Uh, Dr. House said we could," Finn replied.

She closed her eyes in exasperation. "Damn it. And why exactly did you feel the need to spontaneously perform inside the hospital in the first place?"

Rachel answered with, "Our friend is Dr. House's patient, and he needed some cheering up."

"So you decided to turn the ICU into Broadway?" the woman demanded. She was now close enough so that they could see her ID badge. _Dr. Lisa Cuddy – Dean of Medicine._ "This is a hospital. Not a playground." As the group shuffled their feet, suddenly aware of all the stares directed at them from the halted passers-by, Dr. Cuddy's face cleared with an expression of dawning realization. "You know what? You guys really need a practice space that badly while you're here? You can use the roof." She smiled; a gesture that said clear as day that there was more to her offer than just getting them out of the building.

"Does it make for a good stage?" Rachel asked, her eyes brightening.

Dr. Cuddy leaned over conspiratorially. "With the Princeton skyline, it's _better_."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Wow, sorry for not updating in a long time, folks. I had severe writer's block, and, combined with the necessity of taking two planes to get home for spring break, it set me back a few days. Okay, more than a few...**

_relhoff: _ It looks like I've gained a regular reviewer! I appreciate it :)

_ElizabethV: _ Doesn't House _always_ figure out what's wrong? :D

_Jessica: _ I'm not sure about whether or not Quinn's had the baby, since I don't know how soon Nationals takes place after Sectionals. Either she's still pregnant or it's back in Lima, since I doubt she'd take the kid on the road. As much as I dislike Quinn, she'd be a responsible mom.

_kaoru04: _Trust me, crossovers are amongst the most wonderful inventions of mankind. Except for that crossover between Pirates of the Caribbean and Care Bears that I found on here... That was life-scarring...

_.: _Of course I'm continuing it! I wouldn't have the heart to leave Artie's life hanging in the balance :)

_Slinky-and-the-BloodyWands:_ Thank you so much! The Glee characters were harder to imitate than I expected, and it was surprisingly difficult to write in the musical numbers, but I think I did okay-ish. If you liked this x-over, you might like my other House x-over fic, Alternatives. It's House blended with The Host by Stephenie Meyer :)

* * *

_Chapter Five_

Another day passed, and Artie's health was on a steady decline. His headache had faded quickly, but his fever had spiked at one-hundred-and-three and he'd suffered two more grand mal seizures, one of which occurred while the entire Club was in the room, considerably rattling the members he was closer to. His parents had arrived and were camping out in the sitting area, waiting anxiously for any word from Dr. House or his disciples. Nearly delirious from the fever, Artie was unable to get out of bed and spent most of his time attempting to sleep.

The rest of the Club, on the other hand, divided their time between the hospital roof and the cafeteria, occupying their time with rehearsals (led by Rachel), card games, Truth or Dare, gossip, idle conversation, and, in the cases of Tina, Mercedes and Kurt, worrying. Since Artie's last seizure, they hadn't been allowed to see him, and were left in the dark. Even Mr. Schuester didn't talk to them much, trusting them to take care of themselves around the hospital and only meeting up with them for lunch and to drive them to and from the motel.

Dr. House, after making the mistake of entering the cafeteria for lunch the day before and being immediately confronted by the pushy girl who seemed to think she was boss, stayed in the doctors' lounges for his meals so as to avoid any contact whatsoever with Artie's friends. He was helping himself to Wilson's easily-accessed Cesar salad when Thirteen barged into the lounge and smacked the kid's file down on the table in front of him. "He doesn't have autoimmune," she said. "No lupus, no nothing."

House took her irritated approach in stride and watched her expectantly, continuing to munch on Wilson's lunch.

"The tests came back – not a _single _test we did showed any trace of it!" she cried. "What are the chances of all of them being false negatives?"

House sat back, looking pensive. "Pretty low," he said slowly. "Hm." He stood up, limping quickly out of the room and leaving Thirteen more than a little aggravated.

When he entered Artie's ward, the boy was alone and asleep. He was twitching a little bit and sweat was beaded across his forehead as the delirium plagued his brain, but he didn't wake up when House went in. The doctor stood there for a moment before slamming his cane against the foot of the bed. Artie snorted awake.

"What's going on?" he groaned, squinting in the blinding fluorescent lights.

"You don't have lupus," House said, limping over to Artie's side and disconnecting the IV tube from the needle in his hand.

Artie gave him a confused look. "Who are you?"

"I'm from the lab. What you have is not autoimmune, but an infection of bacteria in your brain called encephalitis," House explained as he threw the blanket aside and bent over, searching every inch of the boy's skin.

"Hey! What are you doing?" Artie cried, reaching to grab the sheets back. House had thrown them out of his reach, however, and with no feeling below his waist, Artie had a considerably harder time retrieving them than most of House's patients.

"Relax, I'm a doctor," House said casually, rolling Artie over onto his side so that he could get a clear view of the boy's back.

"Look, I really don't feel comfortable with this—" Artie tried to say.

"Found it!" House interrupted, peering at the backs of Artie's legs.

"…I'm sorry?"

"My missing Vicodin," House said as he sent an urgent page to the team. "Five, four, three, two…one." Foreman rushed into the room. "Perfect timing," House praised him.

"You sent me an emergency page, House," Foreman said, irritated now that he could see that the emergency was nonexistent.

"Come take a look, and then I get to say I told you so."

Artie looked extremely confused as Foreman circled around the bed to see for himself where House was indicating. "Damn, how did we _miss_ that?" he muttered as he quickly donned rubber gloves. "Artie, I need you to hold still."

"What are you doing? What's going on?"

"Just hold still."

A moment later, Taub and Thirteen tumbled into the ward, out of breath from running down two flights of stairs (the elevator was too slow). "What's going on?" Taub asked.

Foreman stood up, a small amount of blood smeared on the tips of his gloved fingers. "We found the cause," he said.

The two junior ducklings frowned and came over to join them. "Oh my God!" Thirteen exclaimed when she saw the back of Artie's right leg. There, right in the pale, creased skin behind his knee, was an angry red spot of rash, a small bead of blood oozing out from its center and surrounded by a ring of a lighter red. "_Lyme_ disease?" Taub asked.

"Yep. Lyme disease," Foreman confirmed. Pinched between his fingertips, with tiny legs waving, was a black deer tick.

* * *

After explaining the situation to Artie, Foreman went to do the same for his parents, while Thirteen went down to the cafeteria to find his friends and teacher. The kids were nowhere to be seen, but Mr. Schuester was sitting in one of the booths, looking deep in thought as he ate a rather disgusting-looking sandwich with too much mayonnaise and mustard.

"Hi, Mr. Schuester," she greeted him.

He glanced up, startled out of his thoughts. "Dr. Hadley, hi. Sit down," he offered. "Any news on Artie?"

"Yeah, good news," she said, sliding into the booth opposite him. "We found that Artie was bitten by a tick that was infected with Lyme disease."

Mr. Schuester blinked, surprised. "All this…was caused by a _tick bite_?"

"Well, the allergic reactions were because of the tick itself," Thirteen explained. "But the seizures and the hallucinations were because he got encephalitis. It's when the bacteria or virus of any number of diseases travels directly to the brain, and the brain swells as it tries to fight it off. It's extremely dangerous, but once we know what it is, it's easy to cure. Artie's lucky. Another few days and he wouldn't have made it."

The Spanish teacher breathed a sigh of relief. "Oh, my God," he said. "And…you're _sure_ this time?"

Thirteen smiled and nodded. "Yeah. We removed the tick, and where it bit him there's a specific kind of rash that only results from Lyme disease, so there's no doubt."

"How did Artie not notice the rash? I mean, doesn't that kind of thing normally bother people?"

"It was on the back of his leg," she said.

Mr. Schuester paused, then his mouth rounded into an _O_ of comprehension. "So he'll be fine?"

"About a week or so of corticosteroid treatment, and he'll be back to normal."

* * *

Cuddy jumped when the door to her office slammed open with a noise like a gunshot. House stormed in, not waiting for an invitation (though it's not like he ever had, so this came as no surprise to Cuddy).

"What is it now?" she asked dryly, returning her eyes to her pile of paperwork.

"You told those delinquents that it was okay to use the roof!" he accused loudly.

"They're a high school choir, House. They're hardly delinquents," she drawled.

"That one with the Mohawk probably is," he sneered. "I walked in on a full-blown production of _Hairspray_!"

"Better on the roof than in the ICU," she retaliated, glaring at him pointedly.

House frowned in confusion.

"…Didn't you tell them it was okay to rehearse in the ICU?"

"Why would I do that?" House asked. "I mean, besides the fact that it's directly above your office and it would annoy you to no end."

Cuddy let out a scoff of irritation. "I can't believe it! The jock lied to me!" she muttered to herself.

House smirked. "Cool. We have a junior House on the block."

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "I have a feeling that you're not going to be performing musical numbers any time soon, House. Anyways, you don't have to worry about them being on your roof any longer; now that Artie's recovering, they're all heading home tomorrow."

* * *

Artie couldn't believe it. He was going to be okay. _Completely_ okay. And all of this from a bug bite. He brushed his fingers over the angry bull's-eye-shaped rash that was slowly fading on the back of his leg where the tick had bit him, and chuckled lightly to himself. He supposed that in this instance, at least, he was lucky he couldn't feel anything below his waist – the rash looked ridiculously uncomfortable.

Sighing in relief for the hundredth time, Artie sat back, pulling the blankets back over his legs as the door slid open and the Glee clubbers poured in. Tina threw her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly and exclaiming, "I _knew_ you'd get better!" Once Tina had released him and he could breathe again, Rachel spoke up from where she stood on the other side of the bed.

"We really are ecstatic that you'll be healed soon. The club would have suffered a great loss if you had inconveniently passed on," she said, flashing the award-winning smile that she was so proud of. "And, since you already seem to be feeling better, we brought you your guitar!"

Finn stepped forward, lifting Artie's guitar case onto the bed. "Thanks, guys," Artie said, grinning widely.

"Now that you're on the mend, we have to head back to Lima," Mr. Schuester cut in. "The Cheerios and the football guys can't miss any more practices, and I can't have a substitute for much longer."

Artie smiled. "That's fine, I appreciate you guys staying for so long. It means a lot to me."

"All right, Tina can keep you updated on the numbers and set lists," Mr. Schuester said. "Right now, though, we have to go back to the motel and get ready to go; we're leaving early tomorrow morning. So, we'll see you back in Lima." He gave Artie's leg a pat and the group began to file out the door, Artie receiving a several hugs from the girls (even Santana, surprisingly), and a few high-fives from the boys.

Tina tapped Mercedes on the shoulder before the latter could turn to leave with the others. "Um…Mercedes…do you think you could—?"

Mercedes cut her off with a knowing smile. "I'll cover for you, girl. You didn't bring much stuff to pack anyways. Bye, Wheels!" With a wave, Tina's fellow diva was out the door.

Tina came over and sat on the bed by Artie's feet, one leg dangling idly as Artie tuned his guitar. "I'm so glad you're okay, Artie," she said.

He laughed lightly. "Me too, believe me. This was _not_ a fun experience. I'm never going to Central Park again." He shuddered. "I hate ticks, they're creepy." Strumming a few chords, he nodded in satisfaction with the guitar's tuning and looked over at Tina, quirking an eyebrow. "Feel like singing?"

"You bet."

Artie smiled and shifted slightly before plucking out a simple but pretty melody from the tightened strings. He opened his mouth and sang, "_I opened my eyes last night, and saw you in the low light, walking down by the bay on the shore, staring up at the planes that aren't there any more._" Tina smiled and blushed as he continued. "_I was feeling the night grow old, and you were looking so cold. Like an introvert, I drew my overshirt around my arms and began to shiver violently before you happened to look and see the tunnels all around me. Running into the dark underground, all the subways around create a great sound. To my motion fatigue: farewell. With your ear to a seashell, you can hear the waves in underwater caves, as if you actually were inside a saltwater room._"

At her cue, Tina chimed in with, "_Time together is just never quite enough,_" and Artie replied "_When you and I are alone, I've never felt so at home,_" as the pair began to alternate lines of the song.

"_What will it take to make or break this hint of love?_"

"_We need time, only time_."

"_When we're apart whatever are you thinking of?_"

"_If this is what I call home, why does it feel so alone?_"

"_So tell me, darling, do you wish we'd fall in love?_"

"_All the time. All the time._"

Tina was beaming (and blushing at the same time, which had to take talent) as Artie took up the verse. "_Can you believe that the crew has gone, and wouldn't let me sign on? All my islands have sunk in the deep, so I can hardly relax or even oversleep. I feel as if I were home some nights, when we count all the ship lights. I guess I'll never know why sparrows love the snow; we'll turn out all of the lights and set this ballroom aglow._"

"_Time together is just never quite enough,_" Tina sang, swaying a little bit with the music as she picked up the chorus on her own. "_When we're apart, whatever are you thinking of? What will it take to make or break this hint of love? So tell me, darling, do you wish we'd fall in love?_"

They finished the song in unison with a slow "_All the time… All the time…_"

Artie smiled at her in silence for a few moments. Yes, everything was definitely going to be okay.

* * *

**A/N: Oh, it's SO cheesy!**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: It's not over yet... (devious grin)**

_relhoff:_ Haha, thank you, although personally I think I sometimes write a little too much like a screenplay, but oh well :)

_kaoru04:_ Yes, it was cheesy. However, it was between The Saltwater Room and Anyone Else But You (from Juno), and the latter song is SO overused, so I decided on Owl City instead.

_Ana Luiza4:_ They're my two favorites, too, along with Fringe :D I had this idea kicking around in my head for a little over a month before I finally decided to write it, since I had no idea how I would execute the musical numbers in the mix with Princeton-Plainsboro, but hey, it came out okay-ish. Thanks for reviewing, I hope you stay updated!

* * *

_Chapter Six_

_Three Days Later_

Artie was sitting up in his bed, practicing for the club's upcoming performance of an ensemble version of _Stand By Me_ (Tina had called to let him know about their newest numbers) when the door slid open and Dr. Hadley came in.

"I just came to refill your banana bag," she said.

"Okay, thanks," Artie said, returning his attention to his guitar.

After a moment, Dr. Hadley spoke. "You're pretty good at that, you know."

"Huh?"

"The guitar," she clarified. "You've got a good sound."

"Oh, thanks," Artie smiled. "Been playing since I was eight. It's an easy hobby to keep up from a wheelchair."

Dr. Hadley watched him for a moment, her expression unreadable.

"What?" Artie asked.

"Oh, nothing, I was just thinking…" she said. "Being in a wheelchair as a kid, that must be tough."

He shrugged. "You get used to it after a while. You learn the tricks, you cope."

"Still. It's admirable."

He frowned, and Hadley wondered for a second if she'd hit a nerve. But the source of his discomfort seemed to be physical rather than emotional, as he said, "Something's not right."

"What's wrong?" she asked, reassuming her doctor stance.

He shifted a little, pushing the guitar out of the way; Dr. Hadley grabbed the instrument and put it on the chair. Artie's eyes widened. "No, no, no!" he muttered, prodding his torso.

"Artie, talk to me, what's going on?"

"I can't feel it," he said, his voice breathy and afraid. "I can't feel it! Please don't let this get worse, Dr. Hadley, _please_."

"Okay, Artie, take a deep breath," Hadley ordered calmly. "We're going to sort this out, all right? You'll be okay, I promise."

She went to the hall and called Artie's parents to stay with him while she headed back to the Diagnostics Department. She held her breath and hoped that Artie hadn't seen her uncertainty.

* * *

"It's got to be Lyme _and_ something else," Foreman was saying. "Something that would respond to corticosteroids with paralysis."

"It doesn't _have_ to be," Chase argued. "Could be a bad blood clot in his spine, pressing on the central nerves."

"He's paralyzed, he's already on blood thinners to stop the clots in his legs," House said. "And a blood clot in his spine would have to be damn big to cut off his nerves. But the wombat's got a point. There's probably something pressing on it. Spinal tumor could explain it."

"If there is one, we can't do an MRI to find it," Thirteen reminded him.

Foreman had a pensive look on his face. "That _would_ make sense, though. Kid gets into a car crash, so they patch him up as best they can and send him home without realizing there's a mass on his spinal cord. With the metal holding his pelvis and lower spine together, they can't do MRIs, and the plates shield the tumor from any x-rays. Nobody realizes that the paralysis was a coincidence with the crash, he spends his life in a wheelchair, and then the tumor gets a growth spurt from the steroids. Ergo, paralysis spreads," Foreman finished.

"Pretty long shot," Taub said dubiously.

"I thought that was what we dealt with here."

"We deal with long shots that make sense," Taub corrected. "Not long strings of coincidences."

"Look, it's practically a ten million to one shot that he's got a tumor that no one noticed for years," Chase said. "But I'm betting that there's at _least_ another fifty or so possible causes that are more likely by any margin."

"_Fifty_ diseases that would respond to steroids with paralysis? There's hardly any!" Taub countered.

"Well, why are we assuming that the paralysis is a response to something we did? Could be a coincidence," Chase said.

"That's even less likely than the tumor!"

"Okay, you two, your conflict is bordering on soap-opera-sappy and I've already had my dose of General Hospital today," House interrupted. "Kid's gotta have a tumor. It fits."

"We can't do an MRI to see it, it doesn't show up on the x-rays, we've got no idea where it is," Thirteen protested.

"Since he was eight, he's been paralyzed from a little above the waist down; now it's moved up to his lowest ribs. It's a good bet that it's situated right on top of the sacrum, growing upwards through the lumbar vertebrae," House said, heading for the door.

"Where are you going?" Foreman asked.

"I'm going to get permission from Cuddy to do an exploratory surgery."

* * *

"House, if you're going to ask me for tighter nurses' uniforms again, I swear to God—" Cuddy was nearing the end of her rope as her work hours were almost up for the day, and her patience was gone before House even entered her office.

"Surgery," he cut her off. "I need permission."

"What are you doing to the kid now?"

"He has a tumor on his spine that's paralyzing him."

Cuddy quirked a dark eyebrow. "Paralysis is hardly a surprising result of getting your lower vertebrae crushed by a car door, House. He doesn't need to hear that he's got a tumor on top of it."

"If he's got a tumor, it'd be a good thing to know."

She gave him an almost-murderous look. "_If?_" she echoed. "You mean you don't _know?_"

"Kid's got more metal in him than the Terminator; an MRI would rip him to shreds. You don't want me to break _another_ machine, do you?"

She sighed exhaustedly. "Exploratory surgery on a sick kid's already damaged spinal cord is _extremely_ dangerous—"

"If he's got a tumor, then it wasn't the crash that made him a cripple," House cut in. "Aside from the mass, his spinal cord's fine."

Cuddy pinched the bridge of her nose in a very Wilson-like fashion. "Okay, besides the fact that you love long-shot coincidences, what makes you think he's got a tumor?"

"When we gave him the steroid treatment for the Lyme disease, his paralysis spread upwards. There's a tumor, and it's growing. We took him off the steroids—"

"So you're frying his brain?"

"Inflating's a better metaphor," House stated.

Cuddy was growing exasperated. "You're risking his brain function for a ten-million-to-one chance that the car crash did nothing to his spine!"

"We have to stop the paralysis before it reaches his lungs," House insisted. "He doesn't like being a paraplegic and I'm pretty sure that he'd enjoy being a quadriplegic even less."

"House, I'm not going to authorize it."

He sighed, biting back a witty reply. "Fine," he said, turning on his heel and limping out the door.

The team members were standing outside, regarding him expectantly. "Well?" Taub asked.

"Do the surgery."


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: I know that "sorry" doesn't even BEGIN to cover the delay here, but know that I really am sorry for leaving this story for (oh my GOD) almost a year. I feel so guilty. The reasons for the delay are as follows: 1) I graduated, started living by myself and was working two jobs, 2) I began a FANTASTIC and AWESOMELY FUN series titled _Expect the Unexpected_, 3) I found out that Season 7 of House SUCKS, 4) I had a stint in the hospital. Again, I'm very very sorry I left it for this long and I feel terrible. Hope you enjoy.

* * *

**

_Chapter Seven_

An hour and a half later, House stood in the observation booth overseeing Chase as he worked. Artie lay facedown on the operating table, out cold from the anesthetic, with his lower back sliced down the spine and held open by the surgeon's assistants. House's attention continually alternated between the view through the booth's window and the TV monitor mounted on the wall showing close-ups of Artie's exposed flesh.

"Hurry it up," House ordered.

"House, I am doing this as fast as I can," Chase said irritably. "I know you think Aussie time runs slower than American time, but it doesn't."

"Yes, it does," House insisted. "There's nothing between the sacrum and the lumber vertebrae?"

"Shut up and watch the monitors, will you?" Chase asked. "I haven't gotten there yet."

House grumbled and rested his chin on his cane as the door opened behind him. Wilson poked his head in and stated, "Cuddy's looking for you."

"Not surprising."

"Don't tell me you're doing another unauthorized surgery," Wilson said, coming to stand by House at the window.

"Exploratory," House said.

Wilson frowned in surprise and glanced at the LCD screens. "On his _spine?_ I thought he was paralyzed!"

"He is."

"Then don't you think you should leave his spinal cord alone and let him keep what movement he has left?"

"What person who is _nothing_ like me are you talking to?"

"What are you looking for?"

"Tumor."

Wilson's jaw dropped a little. "You think his paralysis is caused by a _tumor_? House, he was crushed by car!"

"Pure coincidence. Now shut up, this is the good part," House said, gesturing down to where Chase was working. "Anything?" he asked through the microphone.

"Not yet," the Aussie replied.

"Satisfied?" Wilson asked.

"It's there," House insisted.

The door slammed open behind them (Wilson jumped) and Cuddy stormed in. "Did I not _specifically_ state that you weren't to go anywhere near that kid with a scalpel?" she demanded, enunciating each syllable.

"Oh, was _that_ what you said? My bad. Technically, though, it's Chase doing the cutting, so I guess I'm off the hook."

Cuddy scoffed, rolling her eyes as she smacked the switch for the microphone and practically shouted into the OR, "Chase, close him up _now._"

The Aussie looked confusedly between House and Cuddy several times and finally shook his head in resignation and set about doing as he was told.

Cuddy turned to House, staring at him sternly in the eye and spoke through gritted teeth. "House, you are on a _very_ short leash here. You pull another stunt like this, I'll pull your authorization."

"Chase, stop!" The order came from Wilson, who had relocated closer to the video monitors during Cuddy and House's dispute. "Don't close him up."

Cuddy strode up behind her star oncologist, squinting over his shoulder at the footage of Artie's vertebrae (which was quite a feat, considering how short she was compared to the Boy Wonder). Chase had stopped and was bending closer to the vulnerable spine, trying to see what Wilson saw.

"It's really small, right between the two lowest lumbar vertebrae," Wilson directed. "You see it?"

Chase snatched his tools back from the assistant. "Yeah, I see it." With steady hands, the surgeon pulled back delicate layers of muscle and nerve endings, until, wormed through four of Artie's lumbar vertebrae, was the mass that House had been betting on.

"Somehow, 'I told you so' just doesn't quite cover it," House said to Cuddy.

"You got lucky," she told him.

"I seem to get lucky a _lot_, you know."

* * *

When Artie came around, his head aching slightly, the television was on and the doctor who had so brazenly discovered the tick sat next to Artie's bed. "Dr. House?" Artie said.

"Shh!" the doctor said, not moving his eyes from the TV. "Brooke's about to find out that her dad's not her dad!"

Artie gave him a strange look, but resigned to watching the soap opera in silence. Several minutes later, the show went on commercial break, and Dr. House muted the TV. "So how'd the surgery go?" Artie ventured. "You find anything?"

"Move your toes," Dr. House said.

Artie gave him a strange look. "Dr. House, I'm a paraplegic—"

"Correction: you _were_ a paraplegic," the doctor interrupted. Artie's eyes widened slightly. "We found a tumor growing in your spine. The car accident left your spinal cord intact, but the tumor was pressing on it and your brain lost connection with your legs. The tumor, however, was invisible because of the metal holding your pelvis and lower vertebrae together, and they never thought to look for one. When we gave you the steroids for the Lyme disease, they gave the tumor a growth spurt, and your paralysis moved up as the mass grew." Dr. House stood up and went to the foot of the bed, pulling back the covers to reveal Artie's feet. "We removed the tumor completely. So, once again: move your toes."

Artie's jaw had dropped and he was staring at Dr. House in shock, but he did as he was told. Concentrating, he tried to find that connection that he hadn't felt since he was eight years old, and drew a sharp intake of breath when his toes curled. "Oh, my God…" he whispered. "You – you…"

"Yes, I gave you back your legs," Dr. House said. "No biggie."

* * *

The first person Artie called after getting the news is Tina (his parents were told right after he was). He was practically hysterical, speaking in half-sentences and tripping over his words as he tried to tell her that for the first time since he was eight years old, he could feel below his waist. Tina _completely _freaked out, jumping up and down in the middle of the school hallway (it was between class periods when he called her) and appearing so crazy that Mercedes rushed over from fifty feet away to cry, "What the hell are you going nuts over, girl?"

The news spread like wildfire and within five minutes, the _entire_ club (including Mr. Schue) was gathered in the corridor, crowding around Tina with her phone on speaker as Artie ecstatically answered the hundreds of questions they were firing at him. Eventually Puck snatched the phone and said, "So, can you, like, walk now?"

Artie laughed on the other end. "No, I have to relearn that. But I'm getting set up with a new physiotherapist in Lima now, so I should be able to in a few months."

And even Puck didn't pretend to think that wasn't awesome.


End file.
